Belshazzar's Daughter by Barbara Nadel Page A

impatience with her finally got the better of him. ‘For the love of God, Anya! You know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you! Didn’t we go over it enough times for you?
    The man is a visitor, no one in particular, that’s all! Nothing can possibly go wrong!’
    She moved her head slightly, as if agreeing, but her eyes wept and her hands clutched nervously at her bodice.
     
    It was midday; outside the sun was at its zenith, hot, strong, debilitating. But inside it was dark. Thick, purple curtains were drawn tight across every window; the unnatural light from a single oil lamp glowed sickly in the heavy darkness.
    The apartment was richly furnished in purple, gold and the deep midnight black of mahogany. Heavy furniture, seasoned by long years of usage.
    In the middle of the room, and dominating it, was a bed.
    Its foot was long, tapered and shaped like the prow of a ship.
    Carved and gilded waves, captured in mid-roll, sprang from both the prow and the headboard. Reaching nearly to the ceiling, this headboard provided an anchor for the metres of lilac net curtaining that hung stiff and brittle with age down on to the pillows and across the floor. As generously wide as it was long, the bed itself was covered by a purple brocade counterpane, its edges dangling close to the floor, frayed and soiled by mice.
    On top of this cover, lying on its side, rested the body of a woman. A full-length lilac gown engulfed her skinny body, and a veil of thick, grey hair covered her shoulders and the upper part of her face. Though at rest, her breath did not come easily. She wheezed, her lungs rattling and creaking with mucus every time she breathed out. Crepy, age-spotted hands clutched at the cover beneath her, tightening and relaxing with the rhythm of her breath.
    Outside, in the city beyond the purple curtains, a thousand muezzins called the Muslim faithful to midday prayer. ‘There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet …’
    The woman on the bed stirred. For a second her breathing stopped, held prisoner in her throat. Her face strained as she tried to remember what should have been reflex. She folded back the corner of life and looked at its alternative.
    She made a gagging sound in the back of her throat. Then her muscles relaxed and the breath flowed out of her. Her hands clutched and then released the bedclothes one more time, and she opened her eyes.
    Through a lattice of dry hair, Maria Gulcu surveyed her domain. Sideboard, table, washstand, pictures on the wall -nothing had changed. Even corners of the room she could not see were unaltered. She didn’t have to look, she knew.
    Ikon screen top left-hand corner, two gold brocade chairs over by the window, the photograph album sitting on the card table next to the door. Everything in its place, as it should be. Well, nearly everything. What was wrong?
    There was something at the back of her mind. An
    anxiety, a dread. What was it? It was recent; that was its problem. The closer she was to an event, the quicker it faded from her mind. Ten years ago, twenty, seventy ah, yes, seventy, or rather seventy-four was easy. She kept count. A breath away.
    Every second recorded, marked, stowed safely and for ever. Faces: some brutal, some loved beyond understanding. And a girl. A girl with deep blue eyes and long chestnut hair, tiptoeing on the rim of womanhood. Like the others -but not like the others. She could see the girl, could call her up at will. Getting close to the others was becoming easier with the passing years too. Maria knew why and she welcomed it. Time was gathering pace. Brutal. Hated time.
    There was too much. Now when she didn’t need it there was too much. Then …
    But what about yesterday?
    She turned slowly on to her back and stared at the ceiling.
    Her eyesight had deteriorated considerably over the last few years. There was a pattern on the ceiling, she remembered it well, but all she could see was a blur. She pushed the unwanted memory of the